Aftermath
by KCS
Summary: In the wake of Operation Annihilate, several issues are left unaddressed and unresolved, including placement of blame for the full-spectrum experiment resulting in Spock's blindness, and coping with a grieving man. Fourshot.
1. Reassurance

**Title**: _Reassurance_  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1249  
**Summary/Warning**: In the aftermath of Operation Annihilate, many issues were left unresolved by the episode script; this deals with one of them. May turn into a oneshot series if there is interest.

* * *

He had only just collapsed into his desk chair, intent on the first relaxation he'd had since this nightmare began, when his office door opened again. Repressing a moan of pure exhaustion, he was about to stand, expecting a nurse or the Captain, but to his relief found that it was the First Officer, and that he was waving the physician back to his seat.

"Doctor, please," Spock said quietly, allowing the doors to close. "I am certain you are more exhausted than you appear to be. You require rest, and I have no intention of disturbing you for more than a moment."

He was too tired to look for an ulterior motive in the unusually gentle tone or to respond with a biting comment, and it showed. "You're fine…siddown, will you?" His neck was beginning to ache, looking up at the taller man.

At least, thank the gods of this and every universe, Spock could look _back_ at him.

The Vulcan sat in a graceful, swift motion, and characteristically came straight to the point. "The young man…Peter. What of him?"

McCoy nodded reassuringly. "He'll be fine, just like the others. Jim was just in here to see him. They talked…" his voice trailed off, wincing at the remembrance of the Captain's blank face as he explained to a mere child that his parents were dead, had died in terrible pain just hours before a cure was found.

"And?" Spock was prompting him gently.

"And then he left." Blue eyes looked up suddenly into darker ones. "Spock, I'm worried about him. The boy'll be fine; youth is resilient and he'll eventually be okay. But…I've not seen Jim even shed one tear or even look like he was goin' to since the whole mess began, other than that one second when he almost did – right after you said you were managing the pain and that indicator shot halfway to the ceiling…"

Spock winced internally at the shiver of memory; the pain had been…indescribable. The Captain's presence, felt through a haze but unmistakable nonetheless, had done much to reassure him in the darkness of the agony, but Jim had been required elsewhere for much of the time the Vulcan had spent in Sickbay.

However, that train of thought was neither productive nor informative. "That is, actually, the reason I came to see you, Doctor," he finally stated.

"Good," the physician sighed, leaning back in his chair and resting his aching head on the cushion. "Because Jim needs you right now. No, not me," he whispered, looking down at his hands. "He still sees me as the man who nearly blinded you, and Lord knows he's right enough…"

"Doctor, you _will_ cease to reiterate that fallacy!"

The suppressed tinge of anger startled McCoy, and his head jerked up suddenly.

"Doctor." Spock's eyes, dark with indignation that he would never have shown had he known how obvious it was, flashed. "If you will remember, the _Captain_ was the one who insisted upon – and overruled your objections to – the full-spectrum test. You were in no way to blame, McCoy," he continued, more calmly, and dropping the title in his apparent earnestness.

The gesture further surprised the physician, who had harbored a sickening suspicion that the Vulcan might still blame him as well. "I'd like to believe that," he muttered sadly. Good grief, he was so _tired_…

"You _must_ believe it, for it is the truth," Spock answered earnestly, briefly reaching out to touch the CMO's arm with the lightest of fingers. "And once the Captain has…grieved properly, and had time to absorb the shock of recent events, he will certainly know that as well – if he does not already."

McCoy relaxed slightly under the strong hand, and nodded. "I guess I know that, which is the only reason I'm not cryin' drunk right now," he growled good-naturedly, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. "But that still doesn't take care of our real problem, does it?"

"It does not," the First Officer agreed, releasing the sleeve he held. "Doctor, I wan– I desire to be of some help to the Captain in this time." McCoy graciously (for once) ignored the slip and waved for him to continue, which he did. "I am not entirely certain how to accomplish that, however. I have given the matter several hours of thought, and –"

"That's your problem right there, Spock," McCoy answered quietly.

"I do not understand."

"You're _thinking_ about it, like you would about solving an equation," the physician responded. He made a special effort not to smirk at the Vulcan's helpless eyebrow-shrug, and only smiled slightly. "You can't control emotions, and definitely you can't classify them just like that," here he snapped his fingers for emphasis, "specially those of grief and anger."

Dark eyes gleamed in mild mischief. "I trust, Doctor, that even your limited intelligence can conceive of a more acceptable explanation than that."

"My _limited_ intelligence when it comes to human emotion can kick your logic's backside from here to Martus III, thank you," he retorted, feeling much the better for the return to normality.

Had he not known better, he would have sworn a tiny smirk hovered near the corner of the Vulcan's thin lips. At any rate, it was soon gone, and Spock was only blinking placidly at him. "Well?"

McCoy sighed, leaned his chin in his cupped hand in bone-weariness. "Go find him, Spock," he said simply, and waved a hand toward the doors. "That's my advice. Go find him, and whatever you do, don't _think_ about what you should do to help – just do what you _feel_ is right."

"Doctor, I am a Vulcan. Vulcans do not –"

"Shuddup," the physician barked, and his companion blinked, startled. "First of all, you're a touch telepath – sayin' you don't feel anything isn't just _illogical_, it's ridiculous. Plus I saw that pain indicator, and don't think I didn't see you twitching like a jumpy jackrabbit every three seconds because of that blasted parasite of Hell chewing away your synapses! Jim might have been too overwhelmed with duty and grief at seeing the few people he loved being taken from him right before his eyes to see it, but I _wasn't_. You _do_ feel," he finished in a spurt of vehemence that surprised even himself, "and don't give me any of that bull that says you don't!"

"To deny the truth would be illogical, Doctor," the Vulcan replied after a this-is-exceedingly-awkward pause, all cool serenity to soothe his irritation. "I had intended to say, that Vulcans do not usually enter a situation and act based upon feeling rather than upon logical, rational pre-planning."

"Well try, this time," McCoy persisted earnestly. "I don't know what to do with the Captain, Spock…he won't even _talk_ to me, won't do anything but sit in his cabin or in that ward with his nephew and brood."

"Or work seventeen hours straight shift on the Bridge, three days in succession, and sleep only three hours a night for nearly twice that?" the Vulcan countered quietly, unconsciously betraying the reason he had come in the first place.

"Exactly. Try to reach him, to start him on the grieving process – for both of us?"

Spock rose to his feet, and briefly looked down at the exhausted physician. "I shall try. And, for your sake, I will succeed, Doctor," he vowed, and McCoy believed wholeheartedly that the Vulcan meant it with all his heart…wherever it _was_ in that crazy anatomy of his...


	2. Release

Nothing like a healthy dose of h/c for Christmas Eve, is there? ;)

--

**Title**: _Release_  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, bit of McCoy (this bit)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Summary/Warnings**: In the aftermath of _Operation Annihilate_, many issues were left unresolved by the episode script; this deals with one of them. Oneshot series by popular demand. :)

* * *

It took no great intellect to discover the whereabouts of the Captain; the First Officer had made it his business, during the months they had been on this five-year mission, to learn the habits of the command staff in his efforts to understand and adapt to humans in general. For reasons he was still endeavoring to understand, he had spent nearly three-point-four-two times the amount of time in studying his very young, and very intriguing, captain, as he had the other members of the command staff. Thus, he had long since learned that, when distraught, Kirk could be found only in a handful of locations aboard the ship. Two of those, his own quarters (why the human found peace spending silent time in there eluded him) and Sickbay, could already be eliminated, and he knew the Captain had been avoiding the solitude of his own quarters for one reason or another.

As he had surmised, when he reached the forward Observation Deck, a favored spot for reflection by many of the officers including the two senior of such, he discovered only one occupant of the room, standing under the stars. Alone.

Mentally noting and praising the tactfulness of the crew who had obviously vacated the Deck for their Captain's privacy, he entered the lock code on the doors and then remained near them, half-hidden in the shadows, wondering if and how to approach the man standing under the starlit window. Perhaps the Captain would _prefer_ to be alone…but he had promised McCoy he would try…and somehow he knew being alone was not what Kirk needed at the moment, though he honestly could not explain the knowledge to his logical satisfaction.

Still, he hesitated, and might have – would have – remained in that silently watchful position for the remainder of ship's night, had the solitary figure of the man who was and had taught him to be in return a friend, not suddenly bent slightly as if in pain, placed an unsteady hand upon the wall, and finally slid down to a kneeling position on the cold flooring.

He waited ten-point-two seconds before moving silently across the deck plating toward the silent figure.

"Spock," Kirk murmured listlessly, sensing his approach and knowing no one else would dare to enter under the same circumstances…other than McCoy, and the doctor had every right to be furious with him right now, after how badly he'd put his foot in his mouth. He'd no idea how in the world he could even _begin_ to apologize for that mess…

"Captain." The greeting hung hopefully in the air for a moment and then dropped to the floor with an almost audible thud. Undaunted, he attempted converse once more, refusing to be defeated by mere human stubbornness. "Will my presence disturb you, sir?"

Slightly surprised, the Captain's intense eyes, darkened now to a dull bronze, flicked upward in a curious question. "If I said yes, would you leave me alone?"

"Negative, sir." Fact, not jest, though the human's lips twitched slightly in response. "I would, however, withdraw to a distance," he added seriously.

A fluttering sigh broke Kirk's morose silence after a moment, and he waved a limp hand. "No, go ahead and sit…I've been alone in here for long enough anyhow."

"Indeed, Captain." The gentle statement of fact was not accusatory.

Hesitating only for an instant – the position would be hardly dignified, but it would be quite rude to refuse – he finally seated himself on the floor, knees drawn up slightly and his arms resting upon them. He made certain the distance was close enough that he could sense the terrible disturbance roiling beneath the calm command façade but distant enough that he would not feel overpowered nor Kirk feel threatened.

Obviously, judging from the blank stare being directed at some inconsequential location on the wall, coaxing the man to speak would be harder than he had anticipated. Nonetheless, he began the task with tactical strategy, first playing the opening he knew existed. "Doctor McCoy is concerned that you will not soon forgive him, Captain," he said quietly.

Kirk flinched, lowering his head to rest on his clasped hands, elbows on his knees and voice muffled as he spoke. "And here I was worried about the same thing…"

"You need have no fears upon that score, Captain. The Doctor is, although quite ridiculously temperamental, possessing of a certain degree of what he colorfully terms 'horse sense.' I believe he is well-acquainted enough with you to not harbor resentment over a humanly emotional outburst."

The hands shook slightly as the Captain half-sobbed a laugh. "He sent you after me, didn't he, Mr. Spock?"

The Vulcan gave an eyebrow-frown, choosing his words carefully. "To say that he encouraged me upon my already-chosen course of action would be more accurate, Captain."

One hazel eye, reflecting more glint than just the star-reflection, peeked out at him as if disbelieving the statement. But instead of the flippant comeback the First Officer had come to expect from the man when dealing with mental stress of any kind, he heard only a whisper, nearly lost in the humming of the ship.

"Really?"

He frowned, not following the course of doubt. "Are you contemplating a reason I should not wish to ascertain your state of mind, Captain? I see no cause for such a train of thought."

A harsh laugh, and the slumped figure hauled itself to slightly-unsteady feet again. Spock followed suit, instinctively knowing a storm of some kind was about to break. The captain yanked almost viciously at his shirt, tugging it back into place with enough force to nearly rend the cheap material. Finally, arms wrapped around his torso in a gesture the Vulcan recognized as a rare and unconscious instinct for protection when under stress, Kirk looked back out at the stars, refusing to turn back toward his subordinate.

"If _I_ were you, I wouldn't want anything to do with me," came the bitter answer a moment later.

He raised an eyebrow unconsciously, though the captain could not see the motion. "I highly doubt that, Captain. And at any rate, I fail to follow your reasoning for such a sentiment."

The stiff shoulders hunched under the wrinkled gold shirt. "Yes, of course you couldn't understand it, Mr. Spock." The command tone was back, the words clipped and curt; all feeling buried under the cold, slightly ruthless façade expected of a starship captain. "It's _highly_ illogical. My apologies."

"I did not intend that as a criticism against your human emotion, Captain," the Vulcan retorted with just a hint of deserved acidity, "merely as a request to learn more about your obviously inaccurate train of thought."

He regretted the defensive tone as the human cringed slightly, hanging his head in obvious remorse. "Yes, of course…I know that," Kirk whispered, breathing painfully as if each inhalation was a strenuous effort. "I – I'm sorry."

He shook his head gently. "Apologies are neither warranted nor necessary, Captain."

"Yes…yes they are. And not just for snapping at you…" The recrimination trailed off painfully as the captain rested his forehead against the glass, sighing at the relief of the chill against the flush of his features.

Ah, that was the key to a large part of it, then. Guilt was an emotion he understood, having felt it himself many times before resolutely controlling and conquering it. Every Starfleet officer did, at some point.

Another reason he did not desire to command, ever.

He must tread lightly now. "Captain."

Kirk refused to turn around, even to acknowledge him.

He tried again. "Captain, I believe your sense of guilt to be misplaced, at least in part."

"'Sense of guilt'?" The words were half-mocking, uttered against the glass and creating a fog to silhouette their bitterness. "Mr. Spock, that doesn't even _begin_ to cover it."

"None of what transpired on the way to, on the surface of, or after leaving the surface of, Deneva was your fault, Captain." He had lowered his voice in earnestness, stepping up to the side of the morose man. "I fail to see how you could have prevented any event in that chain from happening as it did – or how you could even have curtailed the rapidity of those events."

"I could've seen what was happening before we got there – it wasn't hard to figure out, for heaven's sake! – could have gotten us all out of there before one of those…those _things_ latched onto you," the captain's voice was rising steadily, the crescendo setting off all kinds of mental alarms in the Vulcan's sensitive mind, "could have…helped Bones instead of yelling at him – "

"I doubt that the good Doctor holds that against you, Captain," he interjected smoothly, "as he has done quite enough 'yelling' as you call it, himself on many occasions."

"I could have told him to experiment with different kinds of light instead of the full spectrum!" came the final, most high-pitched exclamation. "Spock, I _forced_ him to make the test! I _ordered_ him to – to blind you!"

"You did your duty as a Starfleet officer, Captain," he responded sternly, standing stiffly at attention to accent his point. "There was no alternative open to you, or to any of us."

He received a half-hearted look of disbelief, mingled with guilt that could no longer remain hidden below the surface. "There's _always_ another alternative," Kirk said hoarsely. "No, don't argue with me, Spock – there _is_."

He took a deep breath, remembering those terrible hours with more vividness than he would have admitted to anyone, and then firmly pushed the memories down into the recesses of his balanced mind. "Captain, you must believe me when I say that blindness would indeed have been a more acceptable alternative than living another hour with that creature within my body and my mind," he said quietly, but with intense sincerity that fairly burned from his eyes. "I am not certain I would have even survived another hour – it was mere chance that Nurse Chapel's next test was the correct one. Had it been a later one, I very possibly would not have been alive to make the test. In addition, I doubt that your nephew would have remained alive either, for the amount of time necessary to complete the tests."

If he had thought to reassure, he was somewhat discomfited to see that the angry flush on the Captain's face had faded into a sickly shade of light gray. He tried again, more uncertain of his ground now. "You did what you must, as you always do, Captain. Which is more than most men would have."

The captain's hand were gripping the small railing under the window with a white-knuckled grip. "What if I did?" he asked bitterly, swiping an angry hand at a tiny fingerprint-smudge on the stainless titanium. "It didn't do any good for you, or for – for Sam, or anyone else that died before Bones figured out how to help them! I didn't do _a single thing on this mission_, Spock, other than make everyone around me miserable and demand answers that couldn't be found!"

This was much more complicated than he had believed; human emotions constantly amazed him with their complexity and layered meanings. Still, helplessness was too a sensation he was more than familiar with, after missions and more missions where he had been left aboard the _Enterprise_ to await his rash captain's return from some dangerous planet-side assignment.

"In my experience, Captain," he ventured calmly, "humans tend to cope with their emotions in different manners. Many tend to use humor at entirely inappropriate times in an effort to relax themselves or their surroundings. In medically stressful situations, Dr. McCoy tends to raise his voice, throw things, and generally bully his staff about. You, however, tend to react to helplessness as a caged animal does, lashing out at whoever is nearest and closest to you."

The pained look on the human's face alerted him that he had not phrased that in the reassuring way he had intended. He continued hastily, "This is, in my experience, quite normal behavior for a human; and as such, those around you are aware of it and are far more tolerant of you than you seem to believe, Captain."

The limp head lifted slightly. "That's no excuse for my behavior, Spock."

"Very possibly not, Captain," he returned softly. "But I believe grieving over a brother who died hours before a cure was found, could be more than sufficient reason."

Kirk looked as if he'd just been punched in the stomach by a Klingon, but he went on for he had promised McCoy he would not think about what he was doing or saying and he was not quite finished yet.

"Your crew, Captain, understands you better than you think," he said with increasing gentleness, for he could sense the imminent breakdown roiling uncontrolled beneath the surface of the tight grip the Captain held over himself, still all these hours later. "You will find that no one, not even the Doctor – especially not the Doctor – nor myself, nor any other member of your crew, would think of reproaching you for your recent decisions, or your actions."

The tears were threatening to fall now, he could see them clearly reflected in the starry glass as the Captain turned away. "I don't deserve this ship," the man breathed shallowly, running a hand along the gleaming railing. "Or this crew. Any of it, I don't deserve any of this."

"No, you do not," he agreed honestly, and without thinking, and immediately raised a reconciliatory eyebrow when the human whirled on him with a look of hurt and illogical betrayal. "You deserve far _better_ than what has transpired this week in your life, Jim," he added with total conviction, for it was the truth and the truth was only logical.

As a child, he had marveled more than once at how one small word or phrase could apparently set his mother crying – out of joy twice, she said, and of sadness or some human female imbalance the other times – for no apparent reason that he could see; the response apparently was triggered at random, and he could only hope that he never happened upon a statement that could set the reaction off.

Now, apparently he had just done so with his Captain, for the man was close to – not quite, but close to – sobbing aloud, tears falling on his clenched hands, gripping the railing for all he was worth and staring unseeing out at the stars he so loved.

Again reacting, as promised, without thinking of the consequences, he took only a fractional moment to increase his mental shields before raising a hand to place it on the human's shuddering shoulder – only to have Kirk turn and dodge quickly before he could, having seen the motion in the blurry glass.

"No, don't," the captain murmured, trying desperately to regain control of his voice at least.

Stung, he stepped backward instinctively, not knowing why the atypical gesture had been rejected. Had he said or done something to truly give offense?

But Kirk was shaking his head in reassurance, holding up an unsteady hand. "I…appreciate it, Spock, but…just trust me, you…don't want to do that right now," he managed between shaky gasps for breath. "You've no idea – I wouldn't subject you to this…for anything."

"If you will forgive my correction, Captain, I believe that I am the only one capable of dictating to my actions 'what _I_ want,'" he stated gently.

This was one thing about Kirk that constantly amazed him; while the Captain was a very tactile person, and obviously derived comradeship from friendly touching – a pat on the arm, or an elbow in the ribs or swat on the head in the case of McCoy – he was always quite careful to guard any emotion stronger than affection from his Vulcan First Officer when in contact. No one else, in his experience, had ever been as careful around him, and that courtesy was one thing that had instantly drawn and locked his attention when the Captain had assumed command of the _Enterprise_.

"No," Kirk was saying shakily, dashing angrily at his eyes in a gesture of futility, "you don't…understand."

"I understand enough about human expressions of grief to know that your repression of them is highly unhealthy, Jim," he responded softly, in the tone that he would use on a strange planetary animal that looked ready to bolt. "You are not Vulcan; to attempt to emulate one in this area is harmful to your well-being."

He had moved closer as he spoke, determined to carry out this much of his spontaneously-conceived plan in the certainty that this was the correct course of action, though it had no basis in logical fact or experience. Kirk shrank back the only step between him and the glass, his boot hitting the wall with a small metallic _thwang_, and held up both hands in an earnest gesture, somewhat diminished by the tears still threatening to spill over.

"Look, I – I don't want you to have to – just don't…" The final plea was cut short by the physical contact of warm hands gently landing on the captain's shoulders. Kirk turned his head away from his subordinate, trying for the Vulcan's sake to restrain the turmoil swirling about inside him.

Even through the wash of nauseating guilt and agony of grief, Spock could sense that the human was desperately reining himself in and sent a small mental suggestion through the physical contact.

_Release._

The maelstrom of emotion that hit him was staggering but not uncontrollable due to his preparation when, too exhausted to keep up the pretense any more, Kirk finally complied more out of an inability to fight any longer than a willingness to let go.

He could sense it all. Guilt, waves and waves of it, enough to drown a man in its terrible power alone; helplessness and the fear and anger the trapped emotion always generated; self-recrimination over his treatment of McCoy and the crew; horror at what was happening to his sister-in-law and the unconscious little boy. The sickening, tightening sensation of stunned grief at finding his brother already dead, the increasing anguish as the captain stood at Spock's own bedside, watching him battle the pain and for the first time actually show what a battle it truly was. The anger flaring up into a haze at the idea that ten more minutes of experimentation wouldn't have blinded the Vulcan, and nearly-immediate regret at the way he had treated his subordinates for only following his orders. The pain present, always gnawing at the man, as he smiled and nodded and accepted the thanks of the governor of Deneva. The bitter nausea that rose up in a wave as he had to send the communiqué through Starfleet to notify his mother back in Iowa that she had only one child now, and that she would have to raise her grandson now that his parents were both dead, had died horrible deaths.

Feeling all these and more, Spock silently wondered anew at the incredible strength of will and mind that was this human; any other would have broken under the strain and none would have laid blame at his own door for it. He would never quite understand the limits – if there were such – of his captain's endurance, or of that deep, selfless love for everyone he met.

Somehow he became aware that in the course of the…it had truly been four minutes and sixteen seconds?...that his hands had slid down to a more supportive position on the gold sleeves, and the captain's head had somehow slumped to rest upon his shoulder, one hand gripping his arm for all it was worth. He was all but holding the man's nearly-dead weight as he quieted slowly, the sobbing growing more controlled as the pain subsided into less of an acidic solution eating its way through his very heart.

He glanced up in whatever the Vulcan equivalent was for panic when the door opened suddenly, but then remembered that the only two people who could override his voice-lock were the captain himself and the Chief Medical Officer.

Evidently McCoy had not gone to bed, or more likely had not been able to sleep, for his shirt was rumpled and his blue eyes dull and lifeless.

That is, until he caught sight of the unflappable Vulcan practically half-hugging his commanding officer, and then they blinked for a moment, stunned, before widening into enormous blue saucers. A smile broke over the tired face after the obligatory jaw-dropping, and he noiselessly moved closer to the two men by the viewer window.

"What the heck?" he mouthed straightforwardly, behind the Captain's trembling back.

He received a dark glare, daring him to make a further comment and threatening him with painful death by unknown Vulcan methods if he so much as breathed a word of what he saw to anyone, ever.

McCoy smirked, relieved beyond words that somehow the pointy-eared computer had found a way to push the right buttons and get the captain to release some emotion – who'd've thought it?

Granted, he was holding Jim pretty stiffly, like an inexperienced father awkwardly holds a new baby, not knowing what the blazes to _do_ with it, but it was definitely more than he'd been hoping for when he'd sent the Vulcan after his superior.

He was greatly amused at the helpless glances he was receiving from said Vulcan, whose angular features were both softened in worry and drawn in obvious cluelessness, but took pity on him after a minute of quiet sniggering.

"You're doin' fine," he mouthed silently, smiling as Jim's breathing began to even out, and sat down in a comfortably-stuffed chair across the room to wait.


	3. Reconciliation

**Title**: _Reconciliation_  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, McCoy  
**Rating**: K+  
**Summary/Warnings**: In the aftermath of _Operation Annihilate_, many issues were left unresolved by the episode script; this deals with one of them. Fourshot by popular demand.

**A/N:** Also, anyone reading this who is also on LiveJournal and is aware of the _help_haiti_ community fic-auctions, for personal reasons I'm not participating in the public auctions but I am offering a private fic-write for anyone who purchases the _Help Haiti_ LiveJournal V-gift. Instructions and post can be found at my LJ here: http: // kcscribbler .livejournal .com / 317717 .html. (remove the spaces)

* * *

He'd no idea how long it had been or what exactly he'd said or did, but he had to have basically fallen to pieces if his first lucid thought was the realization that he was practically hanging on his stoic First Officer. Highly embarrassed when he saw that what he was sniffling into was a Vulcan shoulder, of all things, he jerked back as if physically yanked away by an invisible force, the blush adding more color to his already crimson face.

Vaguely he noticed that Spock didn't let go of his arms, but he was too busy trying to see straight through the haze of mortification to carry the train of thought any further. "Spock…I'm sorry," he managed, blinking his vision clear at last. "I – I didn't mean for you to share all that, I –"

"Captain…Jim," came the welcome amendment, and he looked up hesitantly at the dark eyes, softened from their usual brilliance. "If I objected to the contact or your display of grief, I would certainly have informed you of the fact."

He gave a strangled laugh, causing a puzzled eyebrow to slide dangerously his direction, which only served to set him laughing harder.

"Captain, I do not see what I said that could be construed as amusing, even by human standards," Spock intoned severely.

Aware that the reaction bordered on mild hysteria, he choked back the relieved giggle into a faint, wet snort, and dropped his head to rest for just a moment on the blue uniform, now sporting a dark patch where he'd cried all over his poor Vulcan friend.

The hands tightened briefly on his arms, and then fell away as he took a deep breath and stood back out of Spock's personal space, not missing the small, very small, breath of relief once the invisible boundaries came back into place.

He rubbed a damp sleeve across his eyes, aware that he probably looked a wreck, and smiled genuinely up at his first officer, for the first time in over a week. "Mr. Spock, Mr. Spock," he sighed fondly, "that was an incredible sacrifice – and I'm not just talking about the personal space, either. You didn't have to download all that and help me deal with it, and we both know it."

The Vulcan's head inclined gracefully in silent acquiescence, obviously at a loss as to how to counter his open emotion.

"Well…" He scrubbed once more at his eyes, feeling lighter somehow, with less of a headache and much less of a heartache, and smiled again, hoping his gratitude had come through along with his grief during the physical contact. "Thank you," he murmured simply. "I…am honored."

The use of the formal Vulcan phrasing was intentional, but obviously came as a surprise – and a pleasant one, if he could decipher the tiny signs correctly (and he was better at that particular pastime than anyone else aboard). The dark eyes glinted, and he received a gentle nod. "The honor is to serve, Captain," came the reply, and for a moment a comfortable silence descended.

It was sliced into by an amused Southern drawl, made ten times more pronounced from lack of sleep and recent stress. "You two done alreadeh?" the voice came out of the darkness, punctuated by a tremendous yawn.

He jumped, and saw a flicker of amusement twitch Spock's lips. "Bones?"

"Who were you expectin', Starfleet Command?" The grumbling grew increasingly louder, and then the disheveled figure stepped into the starlight. "Took me an hour t' find the two of you too…_oof_!"

Spock's eyebrows skyrocketed as the captain fairly flew at the physician, hugging him tightly and beginning to murmur an apology (at least he assumed that was what the unintelligible words were) into the physician's shoulder. He was surprised that the doctor could even understand a word of the incoherent outpouring, and more surprised that it only took a moment or two to calm the captain and reassure him. The method was fascinating, and would bear an interesting cultural study, provided McCoy could refrain from insulting him long enough to teach him about human grief. The ability might be necessary someday, and certainly would be useful.

"Bones…I'm so…so sorry," the Captain was half-sobbing, trying to regain control of himself and not quite succeeding yet. "I can't believe I –"

The physician patted his captain gently on the back, holding the hand there firmly when he'd finished. "That's enough now, Jim," he answered with more than his usual gentleness. "After everything that happened this week, I think you were entitled to cope however you could. We can take it, Spock and I, y'know that."

"That isn't fair…and it isn't an excuse," he muttered angrily, dashing a hand over his eyes as McCoy released him to arms' length.

"_Life_ isn't fair, as we all saw recently," the CMO pointed out sensibly. "No reason to expect humans to act like it is; isn't that right, Mr. Spock?"

He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, clasped his hands behind his back. "It would be highly illogical to do so, Doctor."

"There, y'see? Even Spock agrees with me…which means I really _must_ be drunk or hallucinatin' from lack of sleep," he muttered, glaring at the unperturbed Vulcan.

"Either of which is equally possible, in my experience with your habits, Doctor."

"Is that any way t' talk about the man who was rinsin' out your burning eyes when you were gettin' your sight back? Should've used _salt_ water," the physician grumbled, not oblivious to the fact that his captain was openly grinning, a welcome sight after days of depressive lack of response to any stimulus.

The Vulcan's eyes were glinting in unspoken agreement over the Captain's head, and he knew neither of them were fooling anyone, least of all themselves. Then both gazes turned back toward their captain as he suddenly yawned, kneading his eyes with both sets of knuckles.

"Bedtime, Captain sir," McCoy said cheerfully, slinging an arm around the younger man's shoulders and turning them toward the door. "Need me to give you a pill to keep you out for a while?"

He received a small smile, and then a shy one was directed over his shoulder at the Vulcan bringing up the rear. "No…I'm good I think, Bones. Thanks," was the soft reply.

The paused at the doors; the captain straightened up, tugged uselessly on his shirt to regain semblance of command persona, and then cast a rueful look at his two companions; Spock's tunic still with a large damp patch on the shoulder and McCoy's looking as if it'd been slept in three nights running.

"Well, we look a sorry command team, don't we?" he chuckled lightly, placing a hand on each blue sleeve and drawing strength from them before going out to face the gamma shift crew.

"Dignity, Cap'n, is in the _man_, not the clothes," McCoy grunted as he unlocked the door. "Sorry that leaves _you_ out, Spock," he smirked, exiting the room ahead of Jim's well-aimed elbow.

The corridors were quiet, the lights dimmed for ship's night, and the steady pulsating of the engines and low hum of quiet conversation was soothing and relaxing; they did not speak again until in the turbolift heading for Deck Five.

"Straight to bed, Jim, and that's a medical order," McCoy informed him sternly.

"Yes, Doctor," the younger man sighed, covering another yawn and not about to argue. "Maybe I'll actually be able to sleep tonight…I need to make sure I'm on time for shift tomorrow, have to apologize to the Bridge crew…"

Blue eyes glared meaningfully at dark brown over the slumped head, and after an awkward throat-clearing the Vulcan spoke up. "Captain, I shall be meditating for a few hours and then preparing reports for our upcoming nebula explorations; if you should need me…" he paused, voice uncharacteristically trailing off.

The captain looked up curiously, and then smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. I'll come by to see you maybe an hour before shift, if you won't mind the intrusion."

A reassuring nod. "_Were_ it an intrusion, I would. As it would not be, nor would I 'mind,' as you say; then or any other time."

The lift doors opened onto a deserted corridor; most superior officers were asleep during gamma shift or else working in other parts of the ship (Kirk was unsure if Scotty ever actually slept in his quarters or just bedded down with his precious engines most nights). They moved toward the Captain's cabin with him safely in the middle as always; a habit born in early days of the younger man's captaincy and still carried out for more reasons than physical protection.

"Gentlemen," Kirk finally said, turning and pausing in the door of his quarters, "I thank you both…for everything. I don't like to think what I'd ever do without you – either of you."

"For one, you would be free of the Doctor's depriving you of complex carbohydrates," Spock observed, completely deadpan.

"And he wouldn't be bored out of his head listenin' to you yammer about propulsion units and exponential gravimetric force and I-am-Vulcan, hear-my-logic and Lord knows what else during briefings," McCoy retorted.

The Captain's door was closed by the time they'd finished the familiar exchange, but the half-hysterical laughter they could hear from the other side was sufficient reassurance that the night had been a success, in more ways than one.


	4. Resolution

**A/N:** I can't believe I left this for five months. *hides in shame* I've had a horrendously busy RL these last two months, part of which entailed fifty- or sixty-hour work weeks and ergo little time for writing. I'm trying my best to complete some WIPs before starting on any of my new fic ideas, so at long last here's the last part of this fourshot.

* * *

Spock had just finished his fifteenth report of the morning (half his usual; he had taken more time to meditate during the night due to the emotional upheaval he had participated in, though certainly willingly) when the door to his quarters opened. Soon after their departure on this five-year mission, he had programmed his quarters to unlock and open to the Captain's voice without the trouble of an override, as he was the only person who ever visited, save McCoy once in a great while for medical reasons.

Kirk had been oddly touched by the gesture of trust, and never abused the privilege by entering immediately when the doors opened. Now he hesitated in the entrance until the Vulcan glanced up from his monitor, his stern features relaxing in the closest equivalent he had to a welcoming smile.

As he rose to hand the man two reports needing Captain's authorization, he noted that though the captain appeared still tired, the dark circles beneath his eyes had lessened slightly, and the lines deeply creasing the young face had softened with the aid of a restful sleep for the first time in over a week. Jim was wearing his softer, avocado-colored tunic, instead of the usual command gold; a clear indication that he was more relaxed than he had been in days and intended to stay that way if possible.

"Good morning, Captain," he greeted the human, and passed the PADDs to him with the usual efficiency, well aware that a return to normality would be the man's preference.

"You know something, Spock?" Kirk glanced up, stylus paused, and smiled. "I really think it _is_."

He was about to answer when the communications unit in his computer monitor screeched in a familiar Southern drawl. Without taking his eyes off Kirk's relaxed face, he reached back and opened the channel.

"What is it, Doctor?" he answered dryly.

_"Do me a favor, Spock, remind Jim that – GET DOWN FROM THERE PETER GEORGE KIRK OR SO HELP ME I WILL **SEDATE** YOU – that he's supposed to eat breakfast before goin' up to the Bridge!" _

Jim was laughing so hard he could barely wheeze an affirmative. "Having trouble with my nephew, Bones?" he asked, grinning at his First, who returned the look with an amused tilt of the head.

_"That kid! Honestly, you don't need a DNA test to tell whose blood's runnin' through his veins,"_ came the answering growl. _"Already took apart a dermal regenerator and put it back together, charmed Nurse Chapel into givin' him chocolate-chip pancakes, and was just now climbing up to see how the bio-function monitor above his head works – all before 0800 hours!"_

As if in answer to part of that list, the captain's stomach growled loudly. Spock raised an eyebrow as the human flushed in slight mortification. "I shall see the captain eats before going on duty, Doctor," he spoke into the comm.

_"And no pancakes or danishes, Jim!"_

"Aw, Bones…"

_"I mean it, Jim. Carbohydrates and emotional stress aren't a good combination for your metabolism type, and you know it,"_ the physician reminded him, though more gently than he had been speaking previously. _"I'll see you on the Bridge in an hour, and you can take the Boy Wonder off my hands for the morning."_

Kirk attempted a wheedling, you're-not-going-to-take-his-side-are-you? expression in Spock's direction but received only a stern set of eyebrows in return. Finally aborting the attempt, he threw up his hands in a gesture of mock exasperation and followed his First from the cabin, earning strange looks from two passing Lieutenants as he rolled his eyes expressively ceiling-ward.

Yes, it was shaping up to be a good morning, indeed.

* * *

Two strawberry waffles (Spock had reluctantly agreed with the captain's warped logic when he gleefully pointed out McCoy had only said no _pancakes_) and three cups of coffee later, they walked onto the _Enterprise_ Bridge to see the alpha shift crew already at their stations and setting the initial morning reports in order for their captain.

Kirk felt a sharp pang of remorse and a warmth of love for his crew. After he'd snapped at a beta shift crewman for being sixty seconds late two days ago, his alpha shift had all been showing up at least five minutes early for their duty roster. Instead of subtly showing their displeasure at his rudeness, as he deserved, they had simply banded together to make his days easier. They knew him better than he knew himself, obviously, and only cared that their commander was grieving, not that he wasn't controlling that grief as he should while on duty. By all regulations, he should have been relieved of command long ago due to emotional compromise, and yet no one had relieved him; an expression of tolerance and love that he knew no other captain in the 'Fleet would have received in the same position. He'd been threatened by Spock and McCoy before to be relieved of command, when it had been necessary, and so this gesture of trust and affection, however understated, did not go unremarked.

He reflected once more on the words he'd said to Spock last night – he had the best crew in the Fleet, and he didn't deserve them.

Then he noted with fond amusement that they all visibly relaxed upon seeing his Vulcan shadow close at hand. No doubt his state of mind and disposition had been topics of discreet discussion recently, and they were all relieved to see him looking less like death-with-a-hangover, as McCoy would so quaintly put it.

Accepting a hesitantly-proffered report on fuel consumption from a fidgety yeoman, he signed it off before dismissing her to turn his attention to his crew. He cleared his throat, preparatory to beginning the worst item of business on his day's itinerary: apologizing.

And he winced when each of them jumped nervously at the noise.

"At ease, all of you," he sighed.

Uhura was the first one to both follow that instruction and give him a sisterly, appraising look from where she sat monitoring subspace transmissions between the Federation and supply and research ships headed toward Deneva.

"How are you feeling, Captain?" Sulu spoke up suddenly from behind him, braving the odds of a curt rebuff.

He turned and gave his subordinate a nod. One of the first rules of business that Starfleet Academy taught Command track cadets was to _keep your command image intact._ Do whatever it takes to keep up a front of invincibility. To admit weakness is to lose respect, supposedly, and to show that weakness is to lose command.

He had never really believed that, for honesty was to be respected far more than an image; and besides, he wasn't about to start testing the theory now, not when they all knew the truth.

"…Better, Mr. Sulu, thank you," he replied honestly, and received a relieved smile in return as the young helmsman exchanged pleased glances with the navigator.

But if he didn't start apologizing now he was going to lose his nerve and talk himself out of it. He whirled and placed a foot on the upper deck of the Bridge. "Lieutenant Uhura?"

The woman turned in her chair and, transmissions being completely ordinary and requiring no special attention, removed the earpiece to give him her complete attention. "Aye, sir?"

He remained in that position, only one foot on the upper deck, because it placed him more on eye level; apologies just were wrong, somehow, delivered from an intimidating position.

"Lieutenant," he began, and hoped that the wariness in her expression was due more to apprehension than real dread of what he was going to say, "I believe I owe you an apology, for my behavior during the Deneva approach. The communications issues with the planet had nothing to do with your expertise, and for…implying a lack of proficiency, I am very sorry."

Obviously, judging from her wide-eyed expression, Uhura hadn't been expecting that. And no wonder; another rule of the 'Fleet Command was _never apologize to your subordinates for your actions or expressions_; to do so is to undermine your authority as captain and to engender the idea that not everything a captain does is entirely correct.

He had never liked that one, even as a cadet, because there was never a time or place where common courtesy wasn't necessary on a starship between officers. If he expected his crew's behavior to be exemplary, then he must himself set the example, and he wasn't about to pretend that he hadn't been at fault.

"Sir, I –"

"No," he interrupted gently, hand upraised, and Uhura fell silent, eyes warmly locked on his expression. He needed to do this, though he appreciated her attempt at minimizing the gesture. "There is never an occasion where it is acceptable for a commander to treat his subordinates with anything but the respect they deserve. For that, I apologize, Lieutenant."

"Captain," and the woman's voice was sweet and gentle, soothing after the hair-raising events he had not quite allowed himself to assimilate yet, "I am fairly certain you had a valid excuse for not being yourself."

He smiled tightly, and flicked a glance at Spock, who still stood impassively to the side of the command chair, listening but not interjecting or letting on to anyone else that he _was_ listening.

"A valid excuse? Possibly," he agreed, "but an excuse is not a _reason_, Lieutenant, and as such remains unjustified." _Please understand,_ he begged her with his eyes, _and_ _allow me to do this._

In her usual brilliantly-perceptive way, his Communications genius did so. A gentle nod, and all was set right again; he felt himself relaxing, and let his eyes show both it and his gratitude.

"Apology accepted, Captain," was the soft reply, and with its simplicity the tension on the Bridge vanished as simply as if it had been released out an airlock.

"And that goes for the rest of you as well," he added for good measure, turning to face his crew. "It has been brought to my attention," and here he rolled his eyes pointedly toward the aloof figure beside his chair, "that I have been extremely hard to live with the last six days." A wave of small titters swept around the stations as Spock raised a pointed eyebrow and sighed quietly through his nose. "For that I apologize," he continued, grinning outright at the change in atmosphere.

Various expressions of "No problem, Captain," "Accepted, sir," and the like were voiced into the ensuing murmur of conversation, and he nodded curtly in acknowledgement of the sentiments before finally stalling them with a hand.

"I have already asked forgiveness of both Mr. Spock and Doctor McCoy for my actions toward them this past week." The clarification was necessary; he did not wish anyone who might have overheard the three at any point to think that he was above apologizing to his closest friends or his overly-tolerant First. "Each of you," he added, feeling uncomfortably like he was giving a speech at a formal dinner, so pleasantly eager did his crew seem to hear him, "performed admirably in the face of the Denevan crisis and the…recovery period."

He opened his mouth to continue, to thank those who had under McCoy's direction seen to the burial arrangements for his brother and sister-in-law, but found that if he tried he'd most likely not be able to finish without an embarrassing display. Instead, he simply closed his mouth, waved a hand around in a semi-circle to include the entirety of the crew, and plopped himself down into his chair. "Carry on," he finished simply, and the chorus of affirmatives finished the job of expelling the tension that had clouded the Bridge for days.

A familiar warm presence at his right manifested itself, and he glanced up, vulnerable question in his eyes.

Spock looked down at him and gave him that peculiar, unique combination of a nod and a slow closing of the eyes, which always denoted approval and, though he knew the Vulcan would never admit it, fondness.

He beamed, and settled into his chair with a sigh of contentment.

Then the pleasant peace was shattered explosively by the turbolift disgorging a cranky, sleep-deprived Chief Medical Officer onto the Bridge, nine-year-old bundle of befreckled Kirkian supernova in tow.

"Uncle Jim! Dr. Bones says this is where you steer the ship from and I wanted to see and he said I can't be a pain in the neck to you like I was to him this mornin' but I said I wouldn't and o hi, Mr. Spock, I'm glad you can see now an' thanks for the book you lent me last night it was kind of boring but it was better than Dr. Bones's bedtime story and didya know he let me take apart a dermal regeneratidor this mornin' an' put it back together Uncle Jim and hel-LO his Head Nurse is drop-dead _gorgeous_, and –"

"You _shut_ that smart mouth of yours," McCoy growled at the navigation console, where Sulu was trying to muffle his chortling in his gold sleeve.

Spock's eyebrows had long since decided retreat into his hairline was the better part of valor, and the combination of McCoy's red face and Uhura's soft giggle of delight from behind them all set the captain off into a fit of coughing in a futile attempt to disguise his howls of laughter.

"Peter. PETER," he finally managed to be heard over the onslaught, clapping a hand down on the child's shoulder and grinning at the upturned face. "Impulse power only, kiddo. Dr. Bones will have a seizure trying to keep up with you."

"_Dr. Bones_," McCoy ground out through a clenched jaw, "is going to give the both of you a live vaccination against _Melkotian swamp measles_ if you don't stay out of my sight and out of trouble for at least six hours. _Sir_."

Peter Kirk's blue eyes enveloped the rest of his face, and he edged behind Spock's long legs, eyeing the physician with newfound wariness.

"You are frightening the child, Doctor." A disapproving eyebrow narrowed in the CMO's direction. "Which, although not unexpected in my experience with your bedside manner, is not ideal for one so young. Have you no crewmen to terrify instead?"

"I swear, Spock, one of these days –"

"Bones," the captain interjected suddenly, and reached up to close the gap between them. Hazel eyes had gone a soft sage color, changing from amused into concerned in that instantaneous metamorphosis that characterized his moods so vividly.

McCoy glared, arms folded protectively across his wrinkled blue tunic. "What."

"Go get some rest, Doctor, and that's an order." Kirk squeezed his CMO's arm tightly, wishing he had seen before now that the physician had barely slept more than the captain himself had for the last week. "And in your quarters, not on your office couch, is that clear?"

The tense shoulders slumped perceptibly, and to everyone's surprise the physician did not explode into a defensive fit as expected, only nodded and turned back toward the lift, ambling more slowly than anyone had seen him move in many weeks.

"Bones."

The doctor paused, looked back over his shoulder. Jim Kirk stood with one hand on his nephew's head, and the other hovering close behind Spock's back, and everyone present knew they were all thinking of what might have been – _would_ have been, but for the hard work and sacrifice of a few exceptional people.

"Thank you," the Captain whispered. "Thank you so much."

A slow smile spread across McCoy's exhaustion-lined face, and he nodded in silent acceptance.

"Take care of that kid, Jim," he admonished then, nodding at the youngster peeping over the arm of the Captain's chair, and they both understood the silent warning that the child's recovery was nowhere near as advanced at it might seem at the moment. Grief in children is dealt with by various mechanisms, and despite his resilience Peter Kirk was probably not dealing with his loss any better than his uncle had been the past week.

Kirk grinned, and swung the smiling child up onto the command chair. "Of course," he said, waving at his CMO. "Go sleep, Bones. No, don't touch that, Peter. You'll put the whole ship on red alert."

The turbolift door shut behind the retreating figure, and he glanced over his nephew's head at his Communications Officer. "Make sure he actually gets to his quarters in the next ten minutes, will you?"

Uhura nodded, eyes soft as she turned back to the switchboard.

"I suppose it would be useless, Captain, to point out," Spock intoned dryly from the other side of the chair, "the regulation stating that no unauthorized personnel should have access to the Bridge, especially those under sufficient age to –"

"What does this button do, Uncle Jim?"

"Don't push that, Peter! It manually ejects all escape pods in the event the automatic overrides don't work. Yes, it _would_, Mr. Spock."

"I thought as much."

"Excellent. I do like it when we agree on things, Mr. Spock."

"No doubt," the Vulcan returned dryly, though the tone of his voice betrayed the fact that he was only citing the regulation out of sheer duty, not any real wish to see the child leave the Bridge.

"Captain," Uhura spoke up, half-turning in her chair, "Doctor McCoy has reported to his quarters and is asleep already, according to the bio-monitor in his room."

"Good. Thank you, Lieutenant."

Peter Kirk had lost interest in the blinking lights on the armrest-panel, and was watching his uncle and the crew converse over his head.

"Uncle Jim, what's a hobgoblin?"

Kirk refrained from groaning into his hand, vowed to kill McCoy (_after_ the man had gotten some sleep), and cast a glance at his First. Spock's brown eyes were glinting with golden amusement. "You want to handle that one?"

"A hobgoblin, young one, is a small mythological creature feared in ancient Terran folklore as a practical jokester and general wreaker of mischief in households. Dr. McCoy seems to have adopted the creature as a substantive expletive when referring to my Vulcan heritage, for reasons I am utterly unable to discern due to their usual illogicality."

Blue eyes blinked three times, accompanied by a look of utter blankness. "Huh?"

Kirk chuckled. "Never mind, Peter. And while we're on the subject, don't repeat everything Dr. Bones says about Mr. Spock, okay?"

Peter Kirk nodded solemnly, and blew a lock of shaggy red hair off his forehead with a small _pffff_ before continuing. "'Course not, 'cause he ain't right all the time."

The captain exchanged a raised eyebrow with his First, and turned his attention back to the child. "How so, Peter?"

The youngster poked experimentally at the padding on the chair's seat cushion and then spared his uncle a glance. "He said Mr. Spock don't smile, 'cause Vulcans don't smile. What does this light mean?"

Kirk gently nudged the inquiring fingers off the incoming transmission light and the accompanying switch. "Hold that transmission, Lieutenant," he said, and turned a mischievous gaze back to his nephew. "Scootch out of that seat for a minute, sport. And you don't think Dr. Bones was right about Mr. Spock?"

"Nope," the child responded promptly, and wandered over to Uhura's console as Kirk resumed the command chair. "Gee, you're pretty. My name is Peter," he added with a winsome smile, and instantly earned himself another friend aboard.

Rolling one's eyes is a human emotion, and therefore Spock did not do it.

The captain tried not to laugh. "Why not?" he asked over his shoulder.

"'Cause he smiles with his _eyes_, not his mouth." The child shrugged easily, and crawled under the library console to inspect the durasteel plating.

A grin tugged at the edges of Kirk's lips. "Out of the mouth of babes, eh, Mr. Spock?" he asked companionably, pretending to not notice the slight olive blush that had colored his First's austere features.

Spock _twitched_.

"I'm not a babe!" was the indignant squawk from below the console.

"Transmission complete, Captain," Uhura finally managed after a silent laugh of delight. "Starfleet Command, Priority One."

"On screen."

The viewscreen filled with the face of Admiral Robert Cartwright, and the recorded message played over the communications system.

_"Captain Kirk, your request for three weeks' leave to set in order the affairs of your family has been approved by Starfleet Command."_

Kirk blinked. "They sure changed their minds in a hurry; they turned me down a week ago…" Sandy brows knitted in sudden confusion. "And I only asked for one week's leave, anyway…"

_"A 'Fleet transport ship has been reserved for you and your nephew at Starbase Fifteen, to transport you back to Earth. All traveling and lodging expenses have been cared for, and you will release command of the _Enterprise_ to Acting Captain Spock upon your arrival at the Starbase. You will resume command three weeks from that Stardate, rendezvous arrangements to be made as you see fit."_

Absolutely confused, he rubbed his eyes and released an expressive "What the _heck_?" toward the recorded message. "Spock, what in the universe is he talking about?"

"Captain…" The Vulcan's normally impassive face flinched. "Sir, I…"

Cartwright's face creased in a small smile. _"Tell your First Officer I'm sorry for the delay, but it took several days to convince the Admiralty of this necessity. You've got one very…_persuasive_ Vulcan aboard there, Kirk."_

"Spock…" The word was drawn-out, fondly accusatory as the realization hit.

_"Our condolences upon your loss, Captain Kirk_," Cartwright resumed, official tone back in place._ "Please inform Starfleet Command of your receipt of this transmission. Cartwright out."_

The command chair rocked slightly as its captain shot out of it over to the science station, where the _Enterprise_'s Chief Science Officer seemed to be extremely interested in the lack of fascinating information on his scanner.

"Mr. Spock."

"Captain?"

Kirk shot him a don't-give-me-that-innocent-routine look. "I do believe you've been going behind my back in a certain matter, Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan had the grace to look affronted. "Certainly not, sir. All transmissions were clearly accessible from your queue, had you cared to inspect the records."

"I asked Command for leave eight days ago, and they turned me down. Said the situation on Deneva needed monitoring and that we had to investigate nearby planets for more of the parasitic creatures."

"I was aware."

"Which means someone had to either convince or blackmail them into letting me have it."

"Both of which are sometimes one and the same."

"And I know full well that Starfleet Command does _not_ pay its officers' traveling expenses for unplanned leave privileges outside the Sol system."

"Quite correct, Captain."

"Which means someone _else_ had to pay for them, because it's a long way back to Earth from Starbase Fifteen."

"Long is a relative term, Captain, dependent upon which standard of measurement one utilizes when –"

"Spock!" Kirk slumped to a sitting position on the rail behind the Science station, staring at the deck in a blurry-eyed effort to not broadcast deep emotion into his Vulcan officer's consciousness. "Spock, I…don't know what to say. Three whole weeks is…"

When he glanced up, he saw an eyebrow rise elegantly – and Peter was right, Spock _did_ smile with his eyes, and it was warmer and more comforting than a thermal blanket on a wintry night. "You might begin by instructing your nephew that removing the plating from the library console to inspect the circuitry beneath is not a safe action for one his age?"

"Peter George Kirk, get out from under there this instant!"

A red head popped up promptly, expression contorted into a disappointed scowl. "Tattling ain't nice, Mr. Spock," the child grumbled, scrambling out from under the console.

"_Is not_ nice," the Vulcan corrected.

"That's what I said!"

He couldn't help it; it had been too long a week, too traumatic a last few days, too many tragedies to assimilate, too many losses to grieve, too many things to be grateful for.

Too many people to love for what they had done for him.

Captain James T. Kirk laughed until he cried, and didn't know which felt better.


End file.
